My father was a middle child of three boys. His older brother, Alex, was four years older than him. They were always very much alike. Their younger brother, Richard, was three years younger than my father. Richard, was the carefree one in the family. After college, he decided to study his masters in France and fell in love with the country.

I remember my parents and I used to visit him every summer until Molly was born. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but suddenly my father refused to mention his younger brother and explain to me why we wouldn’t return to France the following year.

Being the ever persistent seven year old, my mother finally caved and suggested I just write the man a letter asking him myself. So I did.

Of course he never responded, but that didn’t deter me. I wrote to him as often as I could, and pretty soon I was grateful that he never wrote back. “Uncle Richard” became synonymous with “Dear Diary.” In fact, Richard was the first person I ever ‘told’ that I was gay. My uncle Richard knew my loves, my fears… he knew about Brian, about the bashing, and my struggles in PIFA with my hand… he knew about my frustrations, and the ultimate end of Brian and I at the Rage party. My last letter to him was a few days after moving in with Ethan.

Of course now Ethan and I are over. I’m living with Daphne and interning at Vanguard. Amazing how life can twist you around, isn’t it? Sadly though, I actually was beginning to think that Brian and I were making progress, when suddenly the shit hit the fan.

I don’t know why it surprised me. Of course Brian would put his pride in front of anything and anyone else. That bastard. I saved his fuckin’ campaign. If it wasn’t for me, those clients would’ve walked. “Orange is the new blue…” what the hell was wrong with that? The clients loved it. Brian was a fuckin’ star. He got what he wanted… so what does the asshole do? Fire me. Fuckin’ bastard.

So I’m walking out of the conference room, trying to stay calm, when my cell phone rings. I want to ignore it, but something inside me tells me to answer it now. I continue walking as I put the phone against my ear and greet in the monotone that seems to have become my life, “Hello?” The message is brief. The words clear. My mind spins and my heart falls all at once. But I can’t think as I keep the phone pressed against my ear (even though the line is now disconnected). I continue to walk across the office and through the glass doors. I tell myself to throw away the phone as I walk past the elevators and to the stairs. It isn’t until I take a few steps down that my body registers the act to drop my phone. It clatters. The corridor echoes with the sound, and pushes me to speed up my pace. I’m running now. I’m running fast and hard. And as I reach the parking garage I try not to think about my mother’s dead body. I try not to come to the realization that my father and I will never make peace. I try to push the thoughts away of my cousins being murdered, and I try not to think about my grandparents with bullets in their head. All I can think about: all I need to think about: is saving Molly.